


Outside the Lines

by AtomicPen



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Multiple Alternate Universes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:27:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicPen/pseuds/AtomicPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the bits that don't quite fit in anywhere else.</p><p>ficlets and prompts from Sebastian's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Home

It reminded him of the days in Kirkwall, before she came along and swept him up in the hurricane that was her life.

The halls were quiet–not silent; footsteps muffled by the thick rugs could be heard, as could murmurs of conversation drifting in from adjacent rooms. It was not as echoing as the Chantry, with warm wooden beams and shelves absorbing sounds instead of only stone and marble made to amplify sermons or the Chant. Windows two or three times his height lined each outer wall, bereft of the colored mosaics of Andraste and the Chant of the Chantry, casting only muted golden beams through the semi-translucent panes. There were open windows in the clerestory to let in air and more light–shafts of brightness that never seemed to quite reach the floor, but always had whirling streams of dust and motes freckling them.

When he’d first arrived, he’d thought perhaps he should have gone to the Chantry again, instead. That was where he had been before the world shattered, and where Hawke always seemed to feel he belonged. All those years he spent dividing himself between her and the Chantry, he wondered which he truly belonged to.

Oddly enough, it was Anders who made him realize that the answer was to neither.

Sebastian’s grandfather had always talked about how he wished he could have lived his life in quiet service of the Maker, and for a while in Kirkwall, before the murders of his family, before Hawke, he thought he had eventually come to find that. He thought it would be a good life to live. But in the end, after so many years of steadily helping Hawke fight and try to find balance in an unbalanced city, Sebastian realized he could never truly leave that part of himself behind. Not the way clergy needed to.

Yet, even coming to terms with that notion within himself, in Kirkwall, he still felt torn between taking up the path back to Starkhaven or not. The Chantry seemed the only other option, were he not to reclaim himself as Prince. And then Anders took that option from him.

At first he was nothing but rage, nothing but pain and a blazing anger that no cool words could quell. Hawke had been almost as outraged as he, and not spared the apostate–even without Sebastian’s foolish ultimatum thrown harshly at her feet, he wasn’t sure she would have spared him after such an act. After following Hawke through the Gallows and what happened with the First Enchanter and then Knight-Commander Meredith, all the choler ran out of Sebastian. In the days that followed, he helped clean up the Chantry and the city, but he knew even then he couldn’t stay.

So, quietly one night, he packed up what few belongings he still had and left Kirkwall behind.

He walked now, hands clasped loosely behind his back, a weathered soft leather-bound folio that hung from his belt thumping pleasantly against his thigh as he walked. He no longer wore robes of the Chantry or the armor of an archer–instead a comfortable tunic and coat and a pair of breeches and simple boots were his uniform. Around him were shelves of books that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Some shelves were full, a few were empty, but most had a fair number of books on them. It was an ever-growing thing, this secular library. Free from a Circle, free from the Chantry, its patrons had wanted a place to harbor any and all texts without prior pretext, where virtually anyone would be able to come and find something. It was not quite there yet–there were rooms with no shelves, or empty shelves waiting for books to hold–but as more people learned of it and became interested, the word was spread further for the call for books.

Sebastian could have chosen to be on the road, riding and traveling with another keeper to gather and bring back a cart of books, or he could have ridden with the callers, letting those who had books know there was a place to donate them if they were not wanted. But he was tired. Grey streaks framed his temples, and his knees and shoulders ached most days. So instead he offered his skills as an archiver, to organize and shelve what books were brought in, and, by extension, to help those who found their way to visit locate whatever it was they wanted to read.

They did not have too many visitors yet, Sebastian mused as he paused to survey a half-filled bookshelf, long fingers tapping lightly against his folio. But that was all right for him. He had found his peace and solace amid the old comfortable scent and feel of books beneath his fingers.

Finding the shelf where he had left off, he lifted the ledger and turned languidly to the last page, where his notes ended. A traveling quill came from a pouch on his opposite side, and his eyes skimmed the titles of the books before his quill scrawled over the page in neat, straight lines.

And he finally felt he was doing some real good that just might last longer than him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Sebastian Vael Appreciation Week (original found [here](http://atomicpen.tumblr.com/post/115812348219/sebastian-as-a-librarian-i-am-sorry-i-am) on tumblr)


	2. The Right Way to Drink It

“So, you’re like, right off the boat or something, yeah?”

The ruddy-haired man behind the bar gave her a quick look that was sharp for just a moment before he covered it with a pleasant politeness. His smile did not reach the blue of his eyes.

“Aye, a direct transplant,” was all he said, and she couldn’t contain her laugh a moment more. One of his eyebrows arched. “Glad you find that so… amusing.”

Hand covering her grin, she shook her head and raised an apologetic hand. “That was mean, I’m sorry.” The stark contrast in her voice from the first question she asked him to now startled him a bit, and his head tilted to the side just a little in confusion. _Oh_ , she thought, that was dangerously attractive. “I overheard that gaggle of girls tittering at you about your accent,” she explained with a vague wave toward a group of four or five girls barely old enough to be in the bar, and his mouth parted, slowly spreading into a smile, half-relief and half-embarrassment, she wagered. This time she could see the hint of crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes.

“You’d be surprised the number of people here who’ve asked me that,” he told her, but then she arched her own eyebrow at him and he amended, “Or perhaps not.” He hesitated a moment, the expression on his face almost as if he was expecting her to say something else.

On a whim, she leaned closer toward him, over the bar counter–noting how he lowered his shoulders closer to hers, as if on instinct–and asked in a low voice, “Did I miss my line? You look like I skipped rehearsal and forgot what I was supposed to say next.”

For an instant he looked at her as if she were a little crazy and he was just realizing this, but then her meaning sank in and he relaxed all at once, his head dipping in laughter.

Resting his forearms on the bar in a way that mirrored her own position–him with sleeves rolled up and showing off warm russet skin with a coppery dusting of hair–he gave her a genuine smile that she felt all the way in the pit of her stomach. He tapped the counter next to her folded hands.

“What’s your drink?”

She scraped her teeth over her lower lip in thought, eyes trailing up to the chalkboard menu of drinks hanging over the bar. After only a moment, however, she felt him shift from the counter and looked to see him straightening, his attention on the other side of the bar. He glanced down at her and gave a quick wink.

“I’ll be right back.”

Watching him go, she decided it really had been a good idea to wander out to a new haunt tonight, to a place she’d never been before. Always one to take a chance, she smiled to herself as she made her decision.

She was left waiting for a few minutes as he took care of other patrons, and she spent the time taking in the dark wood and brick atmosphere of the bar in-between watching him interact with other people. Another bartender came up and spoke with him, but they were too far away for her to hear anything. It was a nice place–music wasn’t too loud or disruptive as in too many other places, and while some patrons did smoke, it didn’t hang thick in the air; leaning her head back, she appreciated the extra height the ceiling had compared to her usual watering hole, complete with exposed wooden rafters to complete the rustic feel of the place.

“So,” the roll of his voice brought her attention back down. “Have you an order yet?”

“I’ve come to two decisions, actually,” she said, unable to stop the smile tugging at one side of her mouth. His eyebrows went up just a little.

“Oh?”

“Yes. One, I’ll let you pick my drink–”

He laughed, cutting her off. “I’m afraid that’s not really a decision.”

A shrug lifted her shoulders. “I like trying new things, and I like your style. I trust you not to disappoint me.” She returned his wink from earlier, matched with a smile just this side of coy.

“Could be a tall order. Anything you don’t like?”

“Mm, a few things, but you’ll have to get me a little drunk before I’ll talk.” The wide grin that split his face made her insides flutter for a moment.

“Don’t say I didn’t give you the chance,” he said, then turned and perused the bottles displayed on glass shelving to either side of the regular liquor well. She took the time to appreciate the breadth of his shoulders, the way the tendons in his arm shifted in the low light as he reached up and brought down a bottle with a long name on the label and poured her our two finger’s worth in a lowball glass. He also picked up a miniature clay pitcher, then brought them both over to her and set them on the counter.

“Now,” he began, and his tone was so serious she immediately looked up at him. “A lot of people don’t properly appreciate this kind of quality, but I get the feeling you just might.”

She peered into the glass, then at the pitcher. “So what do I do with this little guy?”

“First, take a sip– _just_ a sip, mind–of your drink.” He nudged the lowball glass an inch closer to her.

She picked it up and smelled it, her head instinctively tilting back slightly as an earthy burn filled her nose. “Strong,” she said to his expectant gaze, lingering on her. The liquid itself proved just as potent, heating her tongue and cheeks and throat all the day down. It was woody-tasting, with a healthy amount of burn and smokiness. She winced a little, but to her credit she did not cough at the strength. “Wow,” she got out. “That packs a bit of a punch.”

Chuckling, he picked up the pitcher and poured a little bit of clear liquid into her glass–of what she knew now was a whiskey of some sort–expertly replacing the sip she had just taken. “This is water I’ve just put in,” he told her. “I think you’ll find it a wee bit more pleasant now.”

The arch look she gave him made him laugh. “Go on; you said you liked new things. Trust me.” And it might have been the drink warming her cheeks, but she suspected it was the way his eyes stayed settled on her.

She lifted the glass again, but paused before bringing it to her lips, sniffing the contents a second time. She was surprised by how different it smelled from just a little water–it had less wood and smoke now, with a touch of spice and, was that caramel she detected?

She enjoyed how he watched her patiently, all his focus aimed on her as she took her time in sipping. Her eyes widened at the contrast from her last taste to this one; it was sweeter–her nose had not been lying to her, after all–with a myriad of more complex flavors that hadn’t been there the first time. Holding the whiskey for a moment longer in her mouth before swallowing it to savor it, she nodded appreciatively to him.

“So what sort of magic did you perform on that?” she asked once her mouth was empty. His laugh rolled right on through her bones and into the bottom of her lungs this time, and she decided she liked the feeling and the sound.

“No magic, promise. Good whisky opens up like that with a little water.” Amusement made his blue eyes bright. “By the way, what was your second decision?”

“Hm? My–oh! Yes. Right.” The heat in her cheeks this time was most definitely from his attention on her and not the whiskey. “That I would get your name.”

His chortle was edged with a little disbelief. “That’s an easy an unexpected decision. I’m Sebastian.”

“Marian. And _quite_ pleased to meet you, Sebastian.” Her eyes flickered over the rest of the bar, now filing up with more customers as the night rolled on. “And as much as I am enjoying your singular company, don’t you have other patrons…?”

“Actually,” Sebastian began, and it was his turn to look a little sheepish, she noted. “I’m off my shift. Ended right after you came in. But I wanted to stick around a bit longer,” he admitted. “Maybe see if I could get your name, too.”

A sly smile wound over her face. “I’m happy to oblige you with it. Maybe after I finish this delicious…”

“Bunnahabhain,” he supplied, and she laughed.

“What you said. After I finish this, maybe we could take in some of the fresh night air together?” Marian continued, one of her eyebrows arching up at him.

A slow heat coiled in her again at the look that darkened his eyes. “I’d like that, aye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Sebastian Vael Appreciation Week (original found [here](http://atomicpen.tumblr.com/post/115674141624/sebastian-being-a-huge-nerd-for-whiskey-possibly) on tumblr)


End file.
